Many Mornings After
by lene-anschutz
Summary: Neither of them can remember what happened last night, but it can be quite easily deduced. John comes to some realisations and Mycroft wins a bet.
1. Chapter 1

Drunk. He'd been very, very drunk. That's the only reason it happened, obviously. And now his head hurt and he felt rather nauseous. _This_ is why he doesn't drink. Cocaine and nicotine, fine, but alcohol simply makes people ill and stupid.

"John."

Rather irritated, sitting up in bed, Sherlock reached over and poked John in the shoulder with his index finger.

"John."

With a pained groan, John Watson opened his eyes.

"Wha-"

"We had sex, John."

At this John looked over at Sherlock. He sighed.

"Shit."

"My sentiments exactly."

"How drunk-"

"Enough not to remember. And obviously for me to have sex."

"But... I'm not even _gay_."

Sherlock gave a tiny chuckle. John glared at him.

"So I suppose you're going to tell me you know I'm attracted to you because of the colour of my shirt or something."

"No, I know you're attracted to me because you look at me when you think I'm not looking. Sometimes when we're talking, particularly when we're arguing, you start licking your lips and I can see your pupils dilate. You have been for several months now. No, it's my own behaviour I'm concerned about."

John buried his head in his pillow.

"I can't do this yet, Sherlock. I need... water. Painkillers. More sleep. Then hopefully I'll wake up and discover I dreamt this."

"Well that's highly unlikely, considering-"

"Sherlock! Not. Now."

Sensing that he would only have to listen to more (rather obvious) deductions if he stayed in bed, John dragged himself to the kitchen. He guzzled two glasses of water and a painkiller. As an afterthought he fetched a glass and a tablet for Sherlock. He assumed the detective wouldn't think to get it for himself as he mentally reconstructed the events of the previous night (which John himself was not entirely ready to process yet).

"Here," he said, handing the glass to Sherlock, who was still sitting as he had been, blankets draped in a rather distracting way.

Sherlock took it silently and John headed for the bathroom. Eventually he returned, feeling a bit better, intending to head for his own bedroom for more sleep.

"Sherlock, are you going to sit there all day, staring at the wall?"

Sherlock looked at him blankly. "I'm thinking. What happened last night wasn't a normal occurrence, and I need to ensure it doesn't happen again."

As much as he would deny it, at Sherlock's words John felt a little like he'd been punched in the stomach.

"Oh," he replied. "If that's how you feel."

He left the room to return to his own. A moment later, Sherlock appeared behind him.

"John!" he said. "I didn't mean... I just meant, when we're drunk. I didn't mean in general."

Frowning, John turned around.

"Sorry, are you saying you do want to have sex again?"

"I've come to the conclusion that it could be... mutually beneficial under the right circumstances."

"Right. And are you aware that you aren't wearing any clothes?"

"Yes. Why?"

"It's just a bit distracting."

Sherlock smirked. "Later, when I'm entirely sober, we're going to do it properly. And I'm going to use every little observation I've ever made of you to make you scream. Ok?"

John gulped. "I have to... go. Out. But I'll be back later and we can... yes."

With the look of a very distracted man, John Watson grabbed his jacket and headed down the stairs.

x

xxx

x

Pulling his jacket tighter around himself, John reached for the door knocker. He gave two sharp knocks. A few moments later the door opened.

"Well, look who it is. Long time no see, little brother."

"Hi, Harry. You're looking... good."

Harriet Watson smiled. "Yeah, things are a bit better. Anyway, come in, it's freezing."

John followed his sister into the house, grateful that she was happy to see him.

"So how's everything going, John? Blog's been a bit quiet lately. No more exciting adventures with what's-his-name?"

"Sherlock. And that's kind of what I wanted to talk to you about."

Something in John's voice made Harry stop and look at him suspiciously.

"Why? What's going on?"

"I need tea before I can have this conversation."

"Blimey, it must be serious," Harry replied, filling the kettle.

"So how have you been?" John asked.

"Not too bad, actually. Three months sober now. And I talked to Clara the other day. Just talked, don't look so hopeful. But we might get there one day."

"That's great, Harry. Really. I'm happy for you."

"Yeah. Now come on, what were you going to tell me?"

As Harry slid a cup of tea across the table to John, he tried to figure out what exactly he was planning on telling his sister.

"Well, it's... a bit complicated but... I mean, you've read my blog. Nothing with Sherlock is quite normal."

"I did gather that, yeah."

"Well we - last night, for no real reason – we both got completely pissed, and apparently... I mean, it was pretty obvious, really, but it's not like I actually _remember_, but anyway, apparently we... had... sex."

Harry stared at John across the table.

"But you're not gay."

"That's what I said. He laughed at me."

"_Right_... so what happens now?"

"I have no idea. When I left he basically promised that when we're not drunk he's going to make me scream." John's voice cracked a little. "Jesus. But I mean we've never even... we were friends. Colleagues. Flatmates. I might have been in denial but I never thought he was attracted to anyone, as silly as that sounds. And as we've established, last time I checked I wasn't gay. So it's all just a bit... sudden."

Harry frowned. "He is a bit... well, mad, though. Yeah?"

"Completely."

"Oh, John."

"Oh my God. I actually want to have sex with him."

"Oh, John, John, John. Poor little John."

"What am I going to do?"

"I would recommend that you _have sex with him_."

"It's not that simple, Harry."

"Do you love him, John?"

John gaped at his sister.

"I... well, I mean, I..."

"John!"

"Yes. God, yes. Shit."

"Then why are you so miserable about it?"

"Harry, we are talking about a sociopathic occasional-junkie who keeps eyeballs in the microwave and shoots things when he's bored."

Harry looked a little stumped by that.

"Well," she said. "Nobody's perfect."


	2. Chapter 2

John arrived back at 221B Baker St later that afternoon, shopping bags in hand. Sherlock was lounging on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

"Hello," said John awkwardly, standing in the doorway with the shopping bags digging into his fingers.

"Hello," Sherlock replied, typically without a trace of awkwardness.

"I, um... I thought I'd make us dinner tonight. You know, a proper dinner. Are there any body parts in the kitchen I need to know about?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "Do you need the microwave?"

"...no."

"Then you'll be fine."

John sighed and turned toward the kitchen.

"So, did you do anything interesting today? Other than stare at the ceiling?" he asked, as he put away the shopping.

"Mm. I solved a case."

John glanced at his watch. "Can't have been a very hard one."

"No. Lestrade sent me a text. It was obvious. You went to see Harry."

"I'm not even going to ask how you figured that out."

"Did she give you some friendly advice about your newly discovered sexuality?"

John rolled his eyes and ignored Sherlock.

"Actually that must be quite statistically uncommon..."

"What must be?" John asked, only half paying attention.

"Two siblings, both attracted to people of the same sex. Wouldn't be very helpful for continuing the human race if it happened too often. Although I suppose, unlike Harry, you would still be happy to... reproduce."

John was staring at Sherlock, who had now opened his laptop and was presumably looking for statistics on homosexuality in siblings.

"You really know how to flatter a man, Sherlock."

"Hmm?"

"Nothing."

x

xxx

x

John had attempted to clear the table as much as he could, but eventually just ended up pushing some of the clutter to one side. He placed a plate at one end of the table for himself and one at the other end for Sherlock.

In a brief moment of insanity he considered lighting a candle for the middle of the table, then shook his head.

"Sherlock. Dinner's ready."

The consulting detective turned from the window where he'd been staring out over Baker Street. He'd finally gotten changed from the pyjamas he'd been in all day, and John found himself slightly distracted by how good that dark purple shirt looked, top buttons undone and sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

It was still weird to let himself consciously think things like that. And those jeans. When did Sherlock where jeans? They looked expensive. And they made Sherlock's long legs looks even more amazing. John wanted to tear them off him.

Dammit.

Sherlock was looking at him like he could read every thought that had just crossed his mind. Bastard.

Clearing his throat, John sat down at the table. Sherlock joined him a moment later.

"Well, uh... tuck in."

Sherlock smirked. "We've eaten dinner together dozens of times, John. No need to get so awkward about it."

"I'm- I'm not, I'm just... distracted, that's all."

"Really? What could _possibly_ be distracting you?"

"I think, as the world's only consulting detective, you should be capable of figuring that one out."

"Well, I would hazard a guess – this pasta is delicious, by the way – that you're not entirely accustomed to the idea of sexual intercourse with your male flatmate. Close enough?"

"Yeah. Yeah... close enough."

"But you_ desperately_ want it."

"Can we just eat dinner first, Sherlock, please?"

With a small smile, Sherlock continued eating.

"So," he said, a few minutes later. "How's Harry?"

"She's... fine."

"I'll have to meet her someday."

"Hmm. Someday."

A few more moments of strained silence.

"What was the case?" John asked.

"What?"

"The case Lestrade asked you about."

"Oh. Yes. Dull. I think even he knew that and wanted to get it out of the way."

"Ok Sherlock I have to ask you something," John suddenly said, very quickly.

"I suspect it's not about the case."

"No, it's about... you. And the fact that you're... I need to know what..." he sighed. "I've never seen you_ interested_ in anyone. You were completely oblivious to Molly. And when we met you said girlfriends weren't your area and you were married to your work. At first I thought you were gay, but then I just sort of assumed you were... I dunno, asexual or something. And this morning you were surprised to find you'd had sex, like it never happens."

"It doesn't."

"So... what's this then?"

Sherlock sighed. "I'm not asexual, John. And last night wasn't my first time. But it doesn't happen often. I was never quite as preoccupied by it as other teenage boys. Then at university I tried it out a few times-"

"With men or women?"

"Both. I don't see why there should be a restriction. Anyway, I tried it a few times and yes, it was enjoyable. But it clouded my judgement. Distracted me. I've got an addictive personality, John. I knew it could get out of hand if I let it. So I stopped."

John stared at him. "You just... stopped? So you haven't had sex in, what, fifteen years?"

"There has been the occasionally... slip-up."

"Anyone I know?"

Sherlock smirked. "Ever wondered why Sally Donovan hates me so much?"

"Oh. Oh, I suppose that makes sense."

"Generally, though, no. I don't have sex. And usually I don't even think about it. But you, John..."

Despite himself, John grinned.

"Been thinking about it, have you?"

"Occasionally," Sherlock replied, with what John suspected was a rather forced casualness.

"Since when?"

"Since I realised it was you who shot the cabbie."

"Wait, you've wanted to have sex with me since the day after we met? Jesus, Sherlock, most people would have done something about it before now."

"I ignored it, it wasn't difficult."

"Oh, thanks."

Sherlock chuckled. "If either of us should be insulted it's me. You didn't even realise you were attracted to me until you were extremely intoxicated."

"Actually, that's not _completely_ true."

"Oh?"

"I never told you why I stopped seeing Sarah. I didn't even realise I'd done it at the time..."

"Done what?"

"When we eventually... you know... well apparently I said a name that wasn't Sarah _exactly_."

Sherlock let out a proper laugh at that.

"Oh, John," he sighed, grinning.

"Shut up."

Sherlock smiled happily to himself as he finished the last few mouthfuls of his dinner. When he looked up, John had already finished his and was watching him over the table.

"Something the matter, John?"

"You know what you said this morning?"

"Yes."

"About making me scream."

"Yes."

"Any time soon would be good."

"I thought you'd never ask."


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock Holmes was nuzzling John Watson's neck. That's all John was really aware of at the time. Sherlock's hair was tickling his jaw and it suddenly occurred to him that "Sherlock" meant "fair-haired" in Latin, he'd read that somewhere but that didn't make sense because Sherlock had dark hair and why was the even important when Sherlock was trailing kisses over his collarbone? Maybe he'd had fair hair when he was young and his parents had named him Sherlock because of that. But then these are the kind of parents that name their children Sherlock and Mycroft for God's sake so who knew what they were even-

Mycroft.

Oh God, Mycroft. He'd practically kidnapped John for talking to his little brother, what the hell would he do when he found out he was fu-

"John, I can hear you thinking."

"What? Sorry. Just... keep doing that."

Sherlock continued his trail of kisses down to the top button of John's shirt. Then he reached for the button and popped it undone. The rest of the buttons seemed to fall away under his fingers. Sherlock looked up at John as he slid the unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders, then he turned his attention to the scar on John's left shoulder. He delicately ran a finger over it, studying it, cataloguing it. John watched him in fascination. He stood up straighter and peered over John's shoulder at the larger scar on the other side of his shoulder.

"Yes," John said, breathily. "Yes, it went out the other side."

"Hmm."

That piece of information seemingly catalogued, Sherlock returned to kissing. He made his way back up the side of John's neck, nipped at his earlobe and then appeared in front of John's face again.

"Hello," John said, slightly dazed.

"Hello," said Sherlock with a lopsided smile. "We haven't done the proper 'first kiss' thing yet, and I believe it's usually considered an important step in a relationship."

"Yeah, well, we do everything a bit backwards. We probably did it last night."

"It doesn't count when you're drunk."

"Doesn't it? We'd better do it properly then."

Sherlock bit his lip in a self-conscious way that was quite unlike him, then leaned in and pressed his lips against John's. John managed to detach his hand from where he was clinging onto the kitchen bench and slid it around the back of Sherlock's head. He threaded his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls as they kissed, slowly and gently.

"This all feels very new," John said, as they separated. "Considering we did it last night."

Sherlock smiled. "I suspect last night consisted of a lot of drunken grabbing and fumbling. Probably nothing you would want to remember."

"I suspect you're right," John replied. "Now can you kiss me again, please?"

This time Sherlock slid his hands around John's waist and pulled him up against him to capture his mouth in a bruising kiss. John's legs almost gave out underneath him. He moaned against Sherlock's mouth, suddenly aware of the thin layer purple silk and denim that was all that separated him from Sherlock (in particular the part of Sherlock he could feel pressing into his hip).

They broke apart, breathing heavily.

"Maybe we should move to the bedroom," John said, breathlessly.

"Which bedroom?"

"Mine. The further from Mrs Hudson, the better."

They barely made it up the stairs.

x

xxx

x

"Two days in a row. This is getting to be a habit," said John, looking over at a messy-haired Sherlock just emerging from a deep sleep.

"I don't mind," Sherlock mumbled in response, making John smile.

He wasn't entirely sure what the morning-after protocol was with Sherlock. The detective seemed happy enough to have John in his bed so far, but John couldn't imagine him going in for early morning cuddles.

He settled for offers of food.

"Do you want breakfast? I can get you something."

Sherlock looked at him with those piercing eyes.

"Only if you kiss me first," he said, with just a hint of a smile.

John grinned back, and moved over to plant a kiss on Sherlock's lips.

"Are you aware," he began, still smiling, "that you still manage to be ridiculously gorgeous even when you've got pillow imprints on your face? It's actually not fair."

"It's a special skill. Now, what was that you were saying about making me breakfast?"

John rolled his eyes. He got up, pulled on a t-shirt and old tracksuit bottoms and headed downstairs. As he waited for the toast to pop and the kettle to boil, smiling happily to himself, there was a knock at the door. He walked over and opened it, and came face to face with Mycroft Holmes.

"Oh. Hello," he said, suddenly remembering the complaints of Sherlock's old college friend about Sherlock knowing if the boys had been shagging the night before. And his older brother was even more perceptive.

"Good morning, Doctor Watson."

John ignored a strong urge to run away as Mycroft's eyes flickered over him momentarily, polite smile never leaving his face.

"I take it my brother is... in?"

_You've been to Afghanistan. You've killed people._

"Yes, he's... u-upstairs. Sherlock!"

"Isn't that funny," Mycroft said softly. "I thought upstairs was _your_ bedroom. Ah, Sherlock."

"_Oh, God_," John sighed, as Sherlock appeared on the stairs over Mycroft's shoulder, wearing only his jeans from the night before, hanging dangerously low on his hips.

"Mycroft," Sherlock drawled. John really hoped he was imagining the competitive glint in Sherlock's eyes as he looked at his older brother.

"I have a case for you, if you've not got anything more interesting to do."

"I've got _far_ more interesting things to do," Sherlock replied, and John decided he was definitely not imagining it.

"Yes, I can see that now that I'm here. I'll leave it with you," he said, and handed the manila folder to John without looking back at him. "Look it over, if you have a spare moment. Goodbye, Doctor Watson."

Mycroft smiled at them both, then descended the stairs.

"Oh, and one more thing," he added, looking back at them from the landing. "If you happen to see Detective Inspector Lestrade, do let him know he now owes me fifty pounds."

Another smug smile and the older Holmes brother was gone.

John looked up the stairs at Sherlock.

"Really? You couldn't have put your shirt on first?"

"Shouldn't you be making me breakfast?"

John glared back at him.

"You're lucky you look really hot like that," he snapped, and returned to the kitchen.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I was quite amazed at all the people who added this to their favourites and alerts, and the lovely reviews. Thank you! It's my first posted Sherlock fic so that made me ridiculously happy, but also freaked me out a bit because I hadn't entirely planned the rest of it. I just hope it isn't a disappointment!

(Oh, and to the reviewer who pointed out the incorrect meaning of Sherlock's name; I'd read that meaning somewhere so I like to think that John had too. And if Sherlock Holmes as we know him had never happened, it's quite possible Sherlock could have developed as a more common first name on its own!)

x

"I don't remember saying you could now live in my bed," John said, upon entering the room to find Sherlock's jeans returned to the floor and Sherlock under the covers once again, flipping through Mycroft's folder. "Anything interesting?"

"No, just Mycroft's usual political rubbish. He only brought it as an excuse to come over."

John climbed back into bed and placed a plate of toast on Sherlock's lap.

"When he said... about Lestrade. Do you think they really had a bet on whether we were sleeping together?"

"It certainly sounded like it. Mycroft finds it easy enough to cause embarrassment without resorting to lies."

"But how do they even know each other?"

"You know what Mycroft's like. He makes my acquaintances his business," said Sherlock, throwing the folder to the floor and picking up a slice of toast.

"I'd like to meet your parents."

Sherlock froze with the toast half way to his mouth.

"Sorry, that probably sounded completely mental," John said quickly. "I didn't mean for it to come out like I was proposing or something. I was just marvelling at what sort of parents could produce you and Mycroft."

"Oh. Right," Sherlock replied, clearly attempting not to smirk at John's little outburst. "Well I always had a theory that Mycroft was never actually born but in fact given to my parents by aliens."

"That would probably explain a lot."

"No, I ran tests. He's definitely human."

"Yeah, but that's just what they want you to think."

Sherlock laughed. John smiled. It was difficult not to smile when Sherlock laughed like that. When it was genuine his whole face seemed to change and John always felt like it was something unique he was experiencing.

And he usually experienced a sudden urge to kiss him, which he supposed he didn't have to suppress now. He quickly leaned over to kiss Sherlock's smiling mouth. Without a moment's hesitation Sherlock moved the plate of toast from his lap and pulled John towards him.

Still fully clothed, John ended up straddling Sherlock's thighs, his hands resting loosely on Sherlock's shoulders. He deepened the kiss, and Sherlock tipped his head back slightly. John realised he rather liked being the one in charge, as content as he'd been to let Sherlock lead the night before, and it seemed Sherlock was enjoying the new arrangement just as much.

"Remind me again why we never did this before?" John asked, as they broke apart for breath.

"Because you're an idiot."

A slightly breathless laugh (some may have called it a giggle), and John returned to his previous task. As Sherlock began sliding his hands under John's worn t-shirt, they were interrupted by the shrill ring of John's mobile phone.

"Of course," John snapped, climbing off Sherlock and reaching for his phone. "No one calls me unless I'm about to get some. What do you want, Harry?"

The last part was said frustratedly into his phone.

"Oh... sorry. I suppose I'm interrupting something. I was just going mad not knowing what happened with Sherlock yesterday."

"Good things. Good things happened. Can you go away now?"

"Wait, is that what I'm interrupting?"

"Harriet, I swear to God-"

Sherlock reached out and snatched the phone from John's hand.

"Hello, Harry? I'm Sherlock. I'm almost certain your brother was just about to fuck me, for want of a better word, so is there any chance you could call back later? Ok. Thank you. Goodbye." He threw John's phone across the room. "Now. Where were we?"

John gaped at Sherlock. "Who said anything about - I... I don't even know what I'm doing!"

"You're a doctor, I'm sure you can figure it out."

x

xx

x

"Sherlock!"

John stood at the door of the living room, looking around for his apparently invisible flatmate.

"Sherlock! Your phone's ringing!"

Sherlock's Blackberry was buzzing atop a mess of papers on the coffee table.

"Sher- oh, forget it."

John picked up the phone, noting Lestrade's name on the screen.

"Hello?" he said, after taking a moment to remember which button answered calls.

"Oh, is that John? Greg Lestrade. I was looking for Sherlock."

"He's here somewhere, he's just ignoring me. Anything I can help you with?"

"I've just got some crime scene photos I was hoping he could come and have a look at. Nothing very interesting, but I feel like we're missing something that's probably obvious."

"I'm sure he'll be happy to help. He's probably collecting dead flies from my windowsill or something as we speak, but I'll drag him in for you."

"Thank you, Doctor Watson," Lestrade said with a laugh. "See you soon."

Sherlock appeared, dressed in black trousers and pale blue shirt, as John hung up.

"Lestrade?"

"Yes. He wants you to look at crime scene photos, he thinks they're missing something."

"They're always missing something. Ready to go now?"

"Ready if you are."

Sherlock grinned, finished pulling on the jacket he was carrying, took his phone from John and headed for the stairs. John grabbed his jacket from the back of the sofa and followed after him. Throwing on his coat as he dashed down the stairs, Sherlock swooped past Mrs Hudson.

"Hello, boys," she said, smiling. "Off out?"

"To the rescue of Scotland Yard, as ever," Sherlock called over his shoulder as he disappeared out the door.

John smiled politely at Mrs Hudson.

"What have you been up to?" she asked him, almost suspiciously.

"Sorry?"

"You must be doing something right, Doctor Watson. He's got a look about him."

John attempted not to blush. "See you later, Mrs Hudson."


	5. Chapter 5

"Donovan!" Lestrade called from his desk. "Sherlock's on his way up. Can you show him in?"

"He doesn't need showing in," Sally replied, not looking up from her work. "He knows his way well enough."

"Yeah, but if you don't intercept him he gets distracted by shiny things. Please."

Sally rolled her eyes and went to meet Sherlock at the lifts.

"You would almost certainly have enough time in a building of this height," Sherlock was saying, as the lift doors opened. "If you hit the emergency stop -"

"Sergeant Donovan!" John interrupted, pointedly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Hello, Sally."

"Dr Watson. Freak. I honestly can't believe you're still hanging 'round him."

At that Sherlock chuckled and John glared at him.

"Ok, no," Sally said, pointing a finger at Sherlock. "Don't laugh. It's not right. It feels like you're going to murder me in my sleep or something."

This just caused Sherlock to grin at Sally, who shook her head and turned back towards the office.

"_Behave_," John hissed at Sherlock, who smiled sweetly at him.

"I have every intention of behaving. Good afternoon, Inspector."

Lestrade stood in the doorway of his office. Sherlock immediately noted that he looked quite well-rested, so the case couldn't be overly stressful or high-profile.

"Afternoon, gents. Sorry I haven't got anything more exciting for you, Sherlock, but it _is_ a bit of a strange one."

The three men entered Lestrade's office. John and Sherlock sat across from his desk as he explained the case. Sherlock was scanning the crime scene photos when Lestrade finished with, "So they're thinking about bringing the son in, but I'm not convinced. There's something a bit funny about it all."

Sherlock threw the file full of photos onto Lestrade's desk and leant back in his chair. "You're right, it wasn't the son. I'd put my money on the step-daughter."

"I never said anything about the step-daughter."

"Yes, well, that's your problem. Look into it. I could almost certainly confirm it for you if I could see the victim's clothing."

"It's downstairs with forensics. You can stick your head in on your way out, then let me know what I'm supposed to be looking at."

"Will do."

"This feels like a bit of a wasted trip now, I should have just emailed you the photos. Thought it'd take a bit longer."

"It's fine," John said. "We could both do with some fresh air."

"Oh, by the way," Sherlock said, in a way that indicated to John he'd actually been planning to say whatever it was all along. "My brother mentioned you the other day, Inspector. Since when do you know my brother?"

Lestrade looked only slightly surprised.

"What? Oh yeah, he kidnapped me once. Apparently no one taught him you just have to say 'Can I buy you a drink?'"

There was an awkward silence as John and Sherlock stared at Lestrade.

"That was a _joke_, guys, I'm joking. I'm not sleeping with your brother. That would be weird... and terrifying. Anyway, why did he mention _me_?"

This was followed by another awkward silence.

"You tell him," John said. "You brought it up."

"I'm not telling him."

"Tell me what? What's going on?"

John looked at Sherlock, who stared stubbornly out of the window.

"Oh, for-... fine. He told us to tell you that you owe him fifty pounds."

Lestrade frowned. "Fifty pounds? Why do I- ...ohh. No _way_."

"Yes way, apparently."

"But... you said, on your blog! You said you weren't..."

Lestrade trailed off uncomfortably as John shrugged. "Sherlock likes to tell you things you don't know."

"I... wow. Sorry, I'm just a bit surprised. Maybe your brother should be doing my job. But that's... great, obviously."

"Anyway!" John said, standing up. "Should probably be off. See you next time."

He smiled uncomfortably at Lestrade and headed out of the office. Sherlock remained sitting for a moment, staring across the desk at Lestrade.

"I really am happy for you, Sherlock. Don't screw it up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and followed John out of the office.

x

xx

x

Sherlock confidently led the way to the forensics office, not mentioning the awkward conversation with Lestrade. John followed suit, happy to forget about it. When they arrived Sherlock simply strolled in like he owned the place.

The office was empty, except for one man at the far end (youngish, plump, friendly face).

"Oh, hello," he said, as John entered behind Sherlock. "You must be Sherlock. Greg told me you were coming down. I'm David. David Peters."

"Have you got the clothes?"

"Caroline Weissman's? Yeah, they're right here. Look, I've got to run, sorry, but you're welcome to have a look. I'm sure you know what you're doing. Just leave it on my desk when you're done. Oh, and don't mention I left you alone in here, Anderson would have a fit."

John didn't miss the tiny hint of a smile on Sherlock's face at that.

"We'll leave everything where we found it, David."

"Thanks. Nice to meet you!"

Sherlock was already examining the woman's clothing as David left the room. John didn't bother asking what he was looking for as he clearly had the case almost wrapped up in his head, and would only subject John to a patronising spiel about how obvious it all was. John perched on the edge of one of the desks as Sherlock finished inspecting the clothes, sent a text to Lestrade and put the clothes back into their clear plastic bag. Then he looked over at John.

"Well, that was simple," he said. "Finished in time for-"

Sherlock stopped speaking abruptly, apparently looking just over John's shoulder. John frowned. Then Sherlock smiled (and John frowned even more).

"What?"

The smile grew almost predatory, as Sherlock walked slowly towards John.

"What, Sherlock?"

"I just had a wonderful idea."

"Are you going to share it with me?"

"Oh, I'm going to do more than that."

Sherlock had him pinned to the desk, a knee between his thighs. He leaned down to kiss him roughly, slowly attempting to push him back into the desk.

"Sher- Sherlock!" John interrupted, breaking away from the kiss. "I'm not complaining, I'm really not, but... what's brought this on, exactly?"

Sherlock reached behind John to grab something off the desk. He held it in front of John's face.

"Look whose desk you're sitting all over, looking gorgeous."

John frowned at the framed photo, then up at Sherlock.

"You want to have sex on Anderson's desk."

Sherlock grinned.

John sighed.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Wow, I am absolutely astonished at the reviews and everything for this story! Thank you all so much, please continue to leave lovely reviews! Or bad ones if you must. I thought you might all care to know that I'm planning on most likely three more chapters and an epilogue after this one. And I should warn you it may not stay quite so light-hearted, it may all go a bit not good, but I promise it will have a happy ending because I'm actually a big softie and I can't do anything nasty to Sherlock and John.

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John straightened his jumper as they left Scotland Yard, convinced everyone would know exactly what he had just done (or, more accurately, had done to him) on top of a desk in a police station.

"Relax, John," Sherlock said softly, as he walked beside him. "Everyone else is not me. They don't know what you've been doing."

"But I do."

"And you love it," Sherlock practically purred in his ear before climbing into a taxi. John attempted not to blush as he climbed in after him.

Then he frowned as he heard Sherlock direct the cabbie.

"Northumberland Street? Why?"

"I thought we could have lunch at Angelo's. We can go somewhere else if you-"

"No. No, Angelo's is fine. Angelo's is... good. At least he won't put candles out at lunch time."

"But this time you are my date," Sherlock replied, so quietly that John almost didn't hear. He smiled.

"Yeah, I suppose I am."

In a normal relationship, John thought, or at least those he had been in, this would be the point when he would reach across the back seat of the cab and take her hand. But the fact remained that _she_ was in fact a _he_ and _he_ was in fact a self-diagnosed sociopath who would most likely object to public hand-holding. He would have to try it another time.

Sherlock spent the trip to Angelo's gazing silently out the window of the cab, looking to John like he was deep in thought but without the tension accompanying a case. It was pointless to try and fathom what was going through his mind, John knew, but that didn't stop him wondering.

When the cab pulled up outside Angelo's, Sherlock jumped out without paying, leaving John to fumble with his wallet before catching up to Sherlock at the door of the restaurant.

"Right, you can pay for lunch since I always have to pay for the cab."

Sherlock smirked at him. "Don't have to pay here."

"Oh, yeah. Then you really are a cheap date."

"Sherlock!" boomed Angelo from inside. He met them at the door. "Business or pleasure this time?"

"I suppose you'd have to call it pleasure."

Angelo laughed happily, and John didn't miss the quick glance in his direction. "Fantastic. Your usual table's free."

They sat down at the table by the window.

"I don't think I got your name last time," Angelo said, smiling at John as he set a bottle of water down in the middle of the table.

"Watson. John Watson."

"How's the leg? Still doing without the cane?"

"Yes, it's... all better now, thank you."

"Good to hear it. What can I get you? On the house."

They settled for sharing a pizza, because Sherlock never ate a lot even when he wasn't on a case. Billy brought it to the table soon after, along with a bottle of wine John didn't remember ordering.

It wasn't really very different to any other lunch they'd eaten together when they weren't interrupted by a case. Sherlock amused John by explaining the life stories of the people walking past the window, although John suspected a few of them were almost entirely fictitious, and made John have a go with varying levels of success.

It was only as John finished laughing at a particularly ridiculous deduction and suggested they return home that he realised he'd joined hands with Sherlock over the table a few minutes ago.

x

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Neither John nor Sherlock had wanted to return home immediately, so by some unspoken agreement they ended up strolling aimlessly instead of taking the short route home to Baker St. They bought takeaway coffee and wandered through Regent's Park.

John thought, not for the first time, how remarkable it was that despite the detective's general disdain for social niceties there were rarely awkward silences when they spent an extended period of time together. Sherlock seemed to actually enjoy talking to John, but John couldn't figure out what made him different from everyone else. There were silences, of course, but they were usually comfortable if they hadn't been arguing. He supposed it may have been the fact that he was usually genuinely interested in what Sherlock had to say, as long as it wasn't shoved in his face when he was trying to concentrate on something else. There may also have been the small fact that he was completely and utterly smitten with Sherlock, but he'd enjoyed listening to him before that had happened.

As they'd walked through Regent's Park Sherlock had somehow ended up giving John a brief history of the development of forensic science. John couldn't remember exactly how they'd stumbled upon that particular topic, but it wasn't entirely unpleasant to listen to Sherlock excitedly spouting information and theories and fancy French names while they walked in the rare London sunshine.

When they eventually arrived back at the flat, Sherlock settled down to check his emails while John made tea. When John sat down on the sofa to watch Countdown, Sherlock soon closed his laptop and joined him. He lay down with his legs across John's lap.

"Do you mind?" John asked, slightly more amused than annoyed.

"No," Sherlock replied. "Eliminate."

"What?"

"The word. Nine letters. Eliminate."

"Oh," John replied intelligently, trying to ignore the fact that he'd just realised Sherlock even had attractive toes because he actually wanted to watch Countdown.

Sherlock spent the next twenty minutes discovering impressive obscure words in the jumbles of letters, usually beating the contestants. John, however, was usually if not always his equal in the maths rounds.

"I am a doctor, you know," he said, after Sherlock threw him a frustrated look for beating him to the correct method.

They stayed there watching television and eating leftover pasta from the night before for the next few hours. John avoided the programs that prompted Sherlock to despair (loudly) for the fate of humanity and focused on those that allowed him to figure things out. When Sherlock pulled a blanket over his legs (and therefore John's lap) and apparently snuggled down for a night of serious telly-watching, it occurred to John that he was quite simply very happy.

It also occurred to him that very rarely in his life had he been this carelessly, honestly happy without something coming along to ruin it.

He really wished he hadn't thought that.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: If you were enjoying the fluffy, plotless story I had going before then skip the next couple of chapters and tune back in for the epilogue. If you trust me not to break them, keep reading!

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Sherlock knows that sometimes he says things that may be considered, to use John's words, "a bit not good". Mostly he tells himself this doesn't bother him; society's ridiculous need to say one thing when everyone is thinking another is simply an unnecessary restriction that often impedes its ability to solve problems. John is usually quite good at gently guiding him without getting overly upset.

Sherlock has realised in the short time he's known John that he has developed a level of emotional attachment to him that extends beyond merely tolerating him for his usefulness. He knows this attachment makes them both vulnerable, so he attempts to ignore it. He had thought once before that he had succeeded (_but we both know that's not quite true_). He had considered his sexual attraction to the doctor irrelevant, human instinct able to be easily ignored, though now that they'd begun a sexual relationship he'd realised this had its benefits. The crucial element now was continuing to suppress the emotional attachment whilst utilising the sexual relationship.

_I enjoy it_. True, but irrelevant.

_I love him_. No - definitely no - chemical imbalance resulting in increased feelings of emotional attachment. Irrelevant. Delete.

_Sexual relationship provides useful distraction between cases; endorphins, etc. have similar effect on mental state to drug use with fewer side effects_. Yes – relevant.

That morning, as John plodded sleepily into the kitchen and Sherlock looked over at him and definitely _didn't_ experience a strange fluttering sensation in his stomach at the sight of John Watson rubbing his sleepy eyes, it suddenly seemed imperative that he tell John this.

When the words left Sherlock's mouth he observed the brief flash of confusion and disappointment on John's face before it returned to the cool, calm expression he often adopts in unsettling situations. _Name, rank, serial number_. May have been a bit not good.

"Sorry, say that again?"

"Must I say everything twice? I said sexual activity seems to be as effective an occupation for my mind as cocaine used to be."

John stared at him for a moment.

"Is that really... all this is for you?"

"Obviously. Oh, don't give me that look. As enjoyable as it is, sexual intercourse doesn't have to result in ridiculous declarations of undying love. Sex is sex. Our working relationship continues the same as ever, except we won't have to pay for damage to the walls anymore. Well..." Sherlock almost smiled. "Not from bullets, anyway."

John looked lost standing in the entrance to the kitchen.

"But- I mean, the last few days... well, you were acting all... I don't know, it was just... was that all an act, Sherlock?"

"Was what all an act? Nothing's changed, except perhaps an extra level of physical intimacy throughout the day."

Holdings hands. They'd held hands. Sherlock doesn't remember voluntarily holding the hand of anyone who wasn't his mother.

"No, but you were... different," John argued, then seemed to deflate. "But that's you all over, isn't it? Switch on the charm so I'll keep sleeping with you and you don't have to do drugs or shoot the walls. I really thought- Jesus. I _must_ be an idiot, I mean you've manipulated me since we met, haven't you? You tricked me into not limping-"

"That was for your own good."

"And then, like some experiment, you bloody trick me into falling in love with you when I wasn't even _gay._"

They both stared silently at each other as John realised what he'd said.

Finally, Sherlock said, "This is just the problem, John. 'Love', it's just a concept we invented. It just causes... problems."

John took a deep breath, let it out, and turned to walk back up the stairs. Sherlock heard him go back into his bedroom and move around, getting dressed. After a few minutes he appeared back at the living room door, and picked up his jacket.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

"I don't know, probably Harry's." John paused for a moment, not quite meeting Sherlock's eyes. "I'm not sure this is going to work, Sherlock. You and me. I think I got a bit swept up in it all and forgot who I was dealing with for a while."

"But you're coming back."

_I love you I love you please don't leave like this bad things happen whenever you leave. _Irrational. Irrelevant. Delete.

"I don't know, Sherlock!" John snapped. "I just... I'm sorry, I just need some time."

Sherlock nodded, silently, and John left.

x

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John had woken alone in bed that morning, his shoulder aching slightly after he'd slept on his left side. He'd wandered slowly downstairs, stretching his shoulder. As he rubbed his sleepy eyes he'd glanced at Sherlock, staring at the living room wall, apparently deep in thought.

_God, you're gorgeous_, he thought, and had a sudden urge to just tell Sherlock that he was quite a bit madly in love with him.

Then stupid bloody Sherlock had opened his stupid mouth and now John was remembering "mutually beneficial under the right circumstances", which he'd taken as a bit of a joke at the time. He remembered all the people he'd watched Sherlock subtly manipulate in the time he'd known him. "Not much cop, this 'caring' lark." He remembered a psychosomatic limp that Sherlock had tricked him into getting rid of. And he realised he'd been about to confess that he loved this mad man, who obviously still thought he was an idiot.

As he climbed the stairs he forced himself not to run back down to Sherlock and tell him it didn't matter. He knew Sherlock wasn't entirely emotionless, he remembered the look on his face when he feared for John's life, the silent looks by which they'd communicated with each other as tiny red dots danced across them. Sherlock had feelings.

But entering into this new stage in their relationship had been one of the biggest decisions in John's life; he'd changed one of the few things he thought he knew about himself. And then Sherlock had torn it to shreds like he always does.

John was confused, and embarrassed, and needed to get out.


	8. Chapter 8

"Why have you got a bag? That's never a good sign."

"Hello to you too," John replied, standing outside his sister's front door.

"Things didn't work out with the eyeball-microwaving psychopath, then?"

"They haven't exactly not worked out, I just need some time to – look, can I come in first?"

Harry sighed and stepped back from the door.

"What happened?" she asked, as John sat down at the kitchen table.

"Sherlock happened."

"You both sounded happy enough the other morning," Harry said, with a hint of a smile.

"Sorry about that. We were, though. Or I thought we were. And this morning I woke up and he was... God, it's so stupid and sappy, but he just looked bloody gorgeous even in his pyjamas and I just thought _I really do love this brilliant, mad bastard_. I nearly told him, too."

Harry sat down opposite him. "But?"

"Well, he got in first. Basically compared getting off with me to when he used to do coke so he wouldn't get bored."

"_Ooh_. Now I'm getting the 'sociopath' thing."

"Hmm. He'd been so normal the last few days, I nearly forgot how bad he can get. I asked him if he'd been faking it all, and he said nothing's been any different except an 'increased level of physical intimacy' or some rubbish."

John stared at the table, clenching his hand uncomfortably.

"And?" Harry prompted.

"And what?"

"I know you," she said. "There's something else."

"I might have accidentally..." John trailed off.

"_John_."

"I sort of told him he manipulated me into falling in love with him."

Harry winced. "What did he say?"

"Something about love being something we invented that makes us be stupid. I wasn't quite listening towards the end."

Harry was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "Do you think he meant it all, though?"

"Well that's exactly it, Harry. I'd love to say he didn't, but I don't know. He's definitely got emotional issues."

"In what sense?"

"In the sense that he tells himself he doesn't have any, but he does. I've seen him when he thought I was going to die, or... that I'd betrayed him. And the way he reacted when I risked my life to save him was like he couldn't believe anyone would do that. He was all... jumpy."

"You think that's what he's doing now."

John sighed, resting his head on his right hand. "I know it sounds a bit like a teenage girl thinking she can change the big, bad rebel but... he's a good man, Harry. He cares, he just pretends he doesn't."

"But if he's going to treat you like this every time he gets in a mood..."

"I know."

"Well... you're welcome to stay here while you sort everything out. A bunch of mates of mine are going to a pub quiz tonight- don't give me that look, I'm not drinking – and it might be a nice distraction for you. To spend some time with normal people."

"They still exist then, do they? Normal people?"

"I've heard of them, yeah."

x

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Sherlock lay on the old leather sofa, eyes closed, trying desperately to just _stop thinking_.

After John had left that morning he had returned to staring at the wall for a while, then paced anxiously around the living room until Mrs Hudson began to worry about him and brought him a cup of tea. She'd attempted to find out what was wrong, but he'd ignored her and returned to staring at the wall. She'd put the tea on the table next to him and given his shoulder a comforting squeeze before returning downstairs.

When he'd finished the tea (and grown irritable with the skull for staring back at him) he decided to start on the unorganised, towering stacks of paper that filled his bedroom. That plan had almost succeeded in distracting him sufficiently, until he found his gaze repeatedly drawn to the small wooden box at the top of his wardrobe.

As he brought it down he remembered the look of disbelief and disappointment on John's face when he'd first realised Sherlock had taken drugs, and he knew he should put it back.

He didn't open it, but he moved it to the bookshelf next to the window in the living room. Then he slumped onto the sofa. That was where he was when he heard the unmistakable sound of two expensive shoes and the tip of an umbrella at the living room door. Somehow his brother always managed to walk silently up the creaky Victorian staircase.

"For someone so intelligent, you really can be indescribably stupid."

"Go away, Mycroft."

His brother wandered in anyway, stopping in front of the sofa. Sherlock opened one eye to look at him.

"What do you want?"

"To tell you that you are being an idiot."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock replied, shutting his eye again.

"You know very well what I'm talking about, Sherlock. I'm talking about the miserable-looking man who left this flat this morning, carrying a bag and heading for his sister's house, if I'm not mistaken. I'm sure you know the one. A little on the short side, but handsome enough. And quite obviously the best thing that's ever happened to you."

"Go away, Mycroft."

"_Sherlock_." Sherlock opened his eyes and looked over at the tone of his brother's voice. "You love him. You need to admit it."

The two brothers stared at each other for a tense moment, before Mycroft walked over to the bookshelf, shifted a pile of out-dated forensic science textbooks and picked up the wooden box. He tucked it under his arm and turned to face Sherlock.

"I'm waiting."

Sherlock glared. "It's ridiculous; I'm not going to say it."

"You may be able to fool almost anyone else, Sherlock, but you can't fool me."

Several tense seconds of staring and glaring, before Sherlock finally broke eye contact.

"I love him," he murmured, softly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you."

"I said _I love him_, you insufferable bastard! But it's not going to do any good because he's not coming back."

Sherlock rolled over and curled up against the back of the sofa.

Mycroft smiled and left.


	9. Chapter 9

John attempted to steady his drink as someone bumped into him.

"Whoops, sorry mate!"

He sighed and looked around for Harry. Eventually he saw her, sitting at a table with some of her friends. More had arrived in the time he'd been waiting at the bar. He worked his way through the crowd to the table and put his drink down.

"There you are, John!" Harry said, as he sat down. "This is Peter, Simon and Susanne. This is my brother, John."

"Alright, mate? You were in the army, yeah?"

_Oh, good_, he thought. _This conversation again._

"Yes. I was a doctor beforehand, though, and I'm a doctor now. Just locum work, but it pays the bills."

"I heard you've been part time crime fighting as well," Susanne added, grinning.

John shot Harry a look. "That's mostly my flatmate. I just get dragged along sometimes."

He continued making small talk with Harry's friends for a while. Peter and Simon were real estate agents. Susanne was a teacher. He could almost hear Sherlock complaining how dull they were. He would have figured out all their deepest secrets by now.

As they were talking a young man deposited an answer sheet for the quiz on the table and said it would be starting in a few minutes. John had almost forgotten that was what they were there for. He was vaguely aware of Peter and Susanne discussing the absence of a friend who was going to miss the first question if she didn't hurry up. John thought she probably wouldn't mind.

"There she is," Susanne finally said, waving at someone who'd just walked into the pub.

A pretty blonde woman, a few years younger than John, was making her way towards the table. Even in his current state somewhere between misery and indifference, John noticed how attractive she was. A week ago he would have been sitting a little taller, trying to impress her. Now he couldn't quite be bothered.

She sat down in the empty chair to John's left.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, smiling. She turned to John and held out a hand. "Mary."

x

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Sherlock noticed and then steadfastly ignored how much his hands were shaking as he stared at the unsent text message on the screen. He deleted it again and returned to restlessly spinning the phone between two fingers as he paced the flat.

x

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Half an hour and several quiz questions later, John had learnt several things about Mary Morstan (though not, he imagined, as many things as Sherlock would have). She was rather obviously beautiful, fair-skinned and blonde. She was a primary school teacher, working with Susanne. She was friendly but quiet, and didn't drink too much. She was single and clearly flirting with John. And she was completely and utterly normal.

John could tell she was _properly _interested in him, in that way I'm-in-my-thirties-now-and-I-am-assessing-potential-fathers-for-my-children kind of way. And he was a doctor and a former soldier and he had been told he had a "nice face". He knew that was a wonderful combination for winning over a woman like that. He could just imagine her raising lovely blonde children in a nice house near a school, with a cocker spaniel or something. He could come home from a day at the surgery to a pretty blonde wife and nice little blonde kids and everything would be perfect. Nice and normal and perfect and -

_- dull_.

He wasn't sure when he started hearing Sherlock's input in his head without Sherlock even being nearby, but he found it hard not to.

Mary leaned over the table to help the rest of the group answer the last question of the round, about the names of the moons of Mars. She sat back and smiled at John.

"My class has been doing the solar system for a couple of weeks, it's amazing what silly information you get stuck in your head."

John smiled in a way that was not entirely natural, thinking it would probably be nice to have a girlfriend who understood the most basic workings of the solar system. But there was still that voice in the back of his mind that said she could use that space in her head for important things.

Suddenly a bit overwhelmed with the crowd in the pub, John excused himself and headed for the bathroom, although he had no need to. Luckily he found it empty. As he walked in he caught sight himself in the bathroom mirror. He paused, and found himself momentarily thinking, _what does someone like Sherlock even see in me?_ like a teenage girl. He frowned and tried to look properly, objectively, at himself for a moment. He looked a bit tired, but not too bad. Obviously nice enough for Mary to be interested. It was a bit weird to think that if one drunken night with his flatmate hadn't happened, he wouldn't be thinking twice about what could happen with Mary. He shook his head in tired frustration.

John walked out of the bathroom and made a beeline for the bar. After a couple of minutes in line he got himself a lager and moved aside. He couldn't quite bring himself to go back to the table just yet. Mary was so much like the ideal woman he'd imagined himself ending up with his whole adult life that it was almost painful. Mostly because all he felt like doing was running his hands through Sherlock's dark curls, making him a cup of tea and watching telly or chasing him around the city. On top of everything was the realisation that if he made the sensible choice and left Sherlock, he'd be so messed up trying to get over him that he'd probably screw up any chance he might have had with Mary.

"You're moping, John," Harry said, as he appeared next to him. "You're supposed to be enjoying yourself with the normal people."

"I know, Harry. It's just a bit hard today. I don't know what I'm going to do about Sherlock, I just..." he trailed off as his eyes wandered to Mary, who was fiddling with a lock of her blonde hair and smiling across the table at Susanne.

"Ah, the return of Thee-Continents-Watson," Harry joked, as she realised who he was looking at.

"Shut up, Harry, it's not like that. She just reminds me of what I was looking for before everything went mad. I mean, compared to him, she's..."

"Boring?"

"No! She's lovely, but-"

"_Boring_."

"But maybe boring's good, sometimes! Maybe I've lost touch with reality. Maybe I need to do boring for a while."

"You know you'll have to leave Baker Street if you two split up."

"We aren't even properly-"

"Yeah, whatever. Either way, you've got to choose, John. Baker Street, or..." she glanced at Mary. "Well, Boring Street."

John sighed, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "You know what, Harry? I'm sick of making responsible decisions. It's not like anything ever goes the way I planned anyway. I am going to have another drink, and wait for the universe to give me a sign."

Harry smiled sympathetically as John ordered another drink, then they returned to the table.

"I thought you'd run off," said Mary, smiling her charming smile. John smiled back.

He chatted pleasantly with Mary until the quizmaster started up again.

"_A music question this time, guys. I need you to give me the name of the song. Shouldn't be too hard, we'll start with an easy one..._"

John's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, only partly concentrating on Mary, the quizmaster and his phone. Then he felt his stomach do a little flip as he read the words displayed on the screen.

_I love you. SH._

He sat and blinked at his phone. It was only then that he became aware of the song that was playing for the first question. A wistful flute introduction, followed by the famous wailing saxophone riff. His parents has listened to it all the time when he was in primary school. If that wasn't a bloody sign, he didn't know what would be.

He looked back down at his phone and had a sudden memory of standing in a damp warehouse, reading a text from Sherlock that had simply said "Could be dangerous." It didn't feel all that different, really.

As Harry turned to one of her friends to say, "I know it's Gerry Rafferty, but what's it called again?" he slid the answer page towards himself and wrote, next to the little (a) for answer;

_Baker Street_

Then he turned to Mary Morstan and said, "It was lovely to meet you, Mary, but there's somewhere I have to be."

If this were a silly romance movie, John thought, the conflicted protagonist would come to a sudden, stunningly clear realisation upon hearing the meaningful music. Then they would jump up and immediately run all the way to their lover, with the dramatic strains of the meaningful playing over the top, and usually arrive just in time to prevent something tragic from happening. There would be a kiss and everyone would live happily ever after, apparently with no further discussion of the issue that caused the conflict in the first place.

John Watson's life was not a silly romance movie.

But that didn't stop him from running.

x

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"There we are then, I played the bloody song," the quizmaster said, to the well-dressed man behind him. He turned around. "I still think it was too easy, though, with that bloody saxophone. I was gonna use Electric Blue. Do I get my fifty quid now?"

The man smiled and shifted his umbrella to under his arm to remove his wallet from his pocket. He removed the fifty pound note, won in a bet with a Scotland Yard detective, and handed it to the quizmaster.

"Pleasure doing business with you," he said, and returned to swinging the umbrella from his hand as he left the pub through the staff exit.

x

A/N: THE END. Actually no, I lie. John running home was originally supposed to be the end, but there will be an epilogue! And possibly sequels. As I am quite horribly nervous about posting this chapter I would love some reviews! (Oh and the song, for anyone who doesn't know, is this one: /watch?v=Fo6aKnRnBxM&ob=av2n )


	10. Epilogue

John woke up slowly, pleasantly warm and comfortable, if a little sore. He smiled sleepily at the messy head resting on his chest, which was eventually attached to the long arm draped over him (and the even longer leg wrapped around his lower half). He gently ran a hand over the curly, dark mop, causing Sherlock to give an indecipherable mumble and snuggle closer to him. He tried not to laugh so as not to wake him.

A little over twelve hours ago he had come running up the stairs of the flat, partly wanting to kiss Sherlock and say he loved him too, and partly knowing that Sherlock would say anything to get what he wanted. As he'd opened the door he'd been ready for a serious conversation about Sherlock's motivations and emotional manipulation. Then Sherlock had scrambled around from his position on the sofa to face the door, and John's stern resolve crumbled at the look on his face. It was the most genuine expression John thought he'd ever seen Sherlock wear, a pitiful mixture of despair and hope and fear and longing. Sherlock was perched, frozen, on the edge of the sofa, as if he was terrified to move or speak or do anything that could in any way compromise John's presence in the flat. His eyes were begging John for an answer.

After barely a moment's thought, John had held out his arms and said, "Come here, you big idiot."

Sherlock had practically thrown himself at John, latching onto him like a six-foot limpet. He had rambled almost incoherently against John's neck, a mixture of apologies and ridiculous analogies in which John thought he had compared his feelings to a Trojan virus that refused to be deleted, until John had gently guided him back to the sofa and hushed him. There had been a brief lecture on John's part, something about emotions and the truth being good and cocaine being bad, but John had to admit that part was a little fuzzy because he had been more than a little distracted by the rather intense way Sherlock had been staring at him.

Sherlock gave another mumble against John's chest, and then opened his eyes. He looked up at John and said, sleepily, "You're here."

John smirked. "Observant as ever."

"Shut up. I thought I might have..."

"What?"

"Thought I might have dreamt you."

"I imagine your backside says otherwise."

Sherlock snorted with laughter. "You old romantic."

"I love you."

Sherlock's eyes snapped back up to John. He quite obviously knew what was expected of him in return. He slithered down the bed, pulling the quilt over his head like a child.

"Sherlock!" John snapped, as he disappeared.

"They're just _words_, John," came the muffled voice from under the covers. "They don't mean anything!"

"_Sherlock_."

"I love you too, John."

"That's cheating! Get up here and say it!"

With a frustrated huff, Sherlock reappeared above the covers. John tried not to smirk at his messy hair.

"I. Love. You. John. Hamish. Watson. There! Is that sufficient?"

John grinned. "See, it wasn't that hard."

"Must we become one of those horrid couples who feel the need to reaffirm their feelings verbally every few minutes?"

"I bet you can't say it again."

"I love you."

"Again."

"I LOVE YOU!"

"One more time."

"I love you! I'll tell the whole bloody world if it will keep you here."

John smiled at him in silence for a moment. Then he frowned at the glint in Sherlock's eye.

"Sher-"

Sherlock slipped out of bed faster than should have been possible, and before John could blink was out of the room shouting, "Mrs Hudson!"

"Sherlock! At least put some bloody clothes on!"

He jumped out of bed and ran after Sherlock, noticing as he looked over the stair railing that Sherlock had at least had the sense to grab his dressing gown on the way down, and was pulling it around himself as he ran down the stairs.

"Sherlock!"

"_Mrs Hudson_!"

Mrs Hudson emerged from her flat as reached the top of the first flight of stairs.

"Sherlock? What's the matter?"

"Nothing's the matter," Sherlock replied, grinning. "Quite the opposite, in fact. I just have to tell you that I love John Watson."

"That's nice, dear. Now go and put some more clothes on, it's a bit chilly this morning."

John was waiting for Sherlock on the landing outside their living room as Sherlock ran back up the stairs.

"Was that really necessary?" he asked, smiling at the ridiculous detective.

Sherlock kissed him hard and fast, pushing him up against the wall.

"I love you," he said, for the sixth time that morning. John laughed.

"Ok, you can stop now."

"Ohh, no, no, no, John," he said, in that tone of voice John had come to learn meant he'd been carried away with an idea. "I have to tell the _world_."

He slipped out of John's grasp and ran through the living room to apparently struggle with the old, rusted locks of the living room window.

"Sherlock," John said, in a warning tone.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at him and gave a slightly demented grin before the latch finally relented and he pushed the window up.

"Sherlock!"

"_I love you!_" Sherlock bellowed from the window, in a voice that simultaneously made John feel both extremely embarrassed and extremely aroused. "_I love John Watson!_"

John was about to yank him back inside when he heard a voice from the street below.

"Are you doing drugs again?"

"Oh,_ God_..." John moaned.

Sherlock looked down to where Lestrade was standing, clearly about the ring the doorbell. He smiled. "Certainly not, Detective Inspector. Just a little bit in love."

He turned back to John.

"Now," he said. "Where did I put my phone?"

x

A/N: Right, that's it! Hope it wasn't too disappointing for you all! Writing my first Sherlock fic has been enormous fun and I will definitely be doing it again shortly, although I should probably attempt to actually do some of my university work first...


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